Roran made his way back in good spirits. He recognized this part of the road now. His purse was heavy with gold earned through his own hard work, fond memories of Dempton and his mill at his back, his home, his family, and Katrina ahead.

The day was beautiful. Cloudless and pleasant, the trees rustled in the breeze like a thousand feathers dancing, reveling in the glory of the day. Birdsong was in the air. Roran had not seen many better moods or better days, and a good deal of that was the irrepressible knowledge that he, Roran Garrowson, was about to ask for Katrina's hand in marriage, and Sloan had no good reason to say no.

If he did, Roran had already decided that they would elope. He and Katrina would leave Carvahall and live in Therinsford. Nothing would dull his mood. Roran was a man grown, and he was about to take the first bold step in the rest of his life.

Sure enough, the chimneys of Carvahall came into view, scarcely three or four issuing the thinnest streams of smoke on a pleasant day like this. Roran hurried along the last mile in a fine fiddle, threading between the farms on his way into town.

His smile dimmed as he made his way through Carvahall. His smiles were met with pitying looks. Excitement slipped into curiosity, wariness, and then anticipation.

Roran was nearing Horst's house when the man himself hurried over from inside of town, wearing an apron with still-glowing sparks caught in the leather.

"Roran," the smith greeted. His expression was grim and gentle.

"Horst," Roran said, his wariness as tense as a drawn bowstring. "What happened."

Horst gestured to his house. "Let me offer you dinner. We should sit down."

He led him up the hill to his home. The big house was just as Roran remembered it, a memory rolling back into him like a wave on a beach. Elaine was quick to brew tea and offer bread. Roran took his seat slowly, watching Horst all the while. There was tension in the air.

The smith reached into his apron and withdrew a folded square of parchment. Roran's mouth was dry.

"This letter was left for you," Horst said. "And I will be frank, I have read it already."

Roran felt a spike of anger. The wax seal on the paper was broken. "You–"

Horst held up a broad hand. "I shouldn't have, but all that happened left too many questions for Carvahall to turn down any answers. Do you want to see the letter first, or would you like me to tell you the story in order?"

He scowled. Elaine brought him a cup of tea. Roran was too annoyed to be properly grateful. "In order is fine."

"This is mostly guesswork," Horst warned him. "But here is what we know; Some time after you left, a pair of strangers came into town, wearing cloaks and never showing their faces. They were asking about a strange blue stone. Your brother had found the stone previously. Somehow, the strangers got it in their head that Eragon had found the stone, and to look for it at Garrow's farm."

Roran's heart sank. He knew no good would come from Eragon associating with magic and wizards.

"Your house was destroyed," Horst said gently. "They wrecked it beyond repair and burnt down the barn before leaving Carvahall. Garrow was blessed by the gods to survive the initial attack."

"Initial?" Roran asked, dreading the answer.

Horst nodded. "Eragon brought Garrow into town to be healed. He'd been injured himself somehow, with terrible wounds on his legs. Somehow, he contacted the wizard, who came to town to help heal your father and cousin. Gertrude said Harry worked miracles, and that Garrow would have died without his help."

The smith paused for a moment as if to let it all sink in. There had to be something more, something that had caused everyone to give him those looks.

"Garrow was recovering, the strangers were gone," Horst said. "Eragon told me he'd buried the stone the strangers were after in the middle of nowhere in the Spine. His story didn't add up. It was the very next night when Garrow, Eragon, and the wizard all vanished. A few days later, Brom disappeared as well. Brom was the one to write this letter."

Horst handed it over to Roran.

Roran's cheeks burned. "I can't read," he muttered.

The smith blinked, then unfolded the letter and read aloud.

Roran was too furious at his cousin to care much about the wording. The long and the short of it was that Eragon had run off with Brom and Harry to go gallivanting across the Empire, and that Roran ought to watch out for the Empire's reprisals against him.

As if it was not enough to abandon him without even speaking face to face, the audacity of that final warning galled Roran.

"There is another note," Horst said, pulling out a grubby piece of paper. "That says Garrow went with Harry and Eragon to recover." He slid the note over to Roran. It was in a different handwriting. Harry's, presumably.

"What do you think?" Roran finally asked.

Horst rubbed his chin. "Magic is involved, so nothing can be certain."

Roran made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and gestured for him to go on.

"Some people think," Horst said delicately, "that Harry killed Garrow and hid the body. Wiser minds think his healing magic went wrong somehow and it resulted in Garrow's death. I think Harry tried to help more than he could. I think Garrow succumbed to the stranger's attacks and, worried about his secret or about reprisals, Harry hid Garrow's body and ran away. I'm sorry to say, it seems unlikely Garrow was alive to go with them. He was in no condition to travel."

"What about Brom and Eragon?" Roran bit out, reeling. His fingers felt numb against the porcelain teacup.

"They are why I think Garrow died through no malevolence on Harry's part," Horst said. "I find it hard to believe they'd all depart together if Harry had indeed murdered Garrow."

"Couldn't it have been that Harry killed them all and forged the letter?" Roran demanded suspiciously.

"It's in Brom's handwriting," Horst pointed out.

"He could have compelled Brom," Roran insisted

"Brom seems pretty strong willed," Horst maintained.

He grasped for reasons. "Suppose he was in cohorts with Brom."

Horst shook his head. "We know Brom too well for that. I don't believe Brom would side with Harry over Eragon and Garrow."

Roran looked down at the note. The glyphs meant nothing to him. Horst could be in on it too. It could be a grocery list he was showing him, for all Roran knew. Maybe Brom had written the letter before the murder, or Harry had bewitched him.

It had to be Harry's fault. Roran wanted to loathe Harry. He wanted to hate him, to be certain he could lay this disaster at his feet, so that at least he would have a face to put to the ruination of his life.

Roran sipped his tea. The drink had already gone cold. Elaine was cleaning up the kitchen around them. Horst watched him sympathetically.

Roran downed the rest of his tea and stood. "The rest of Carvahall knows?"

Horst nodded. "After everything happened, word got out to the Empire. They sent a few men and a magician, a menacing woman who asked some forceful questions. That sort of thing tends to spread information around."

Turning about his heel, Roran made for the door without another word. Horst shot to his feet. "Roran," he called. "Your father's house is gone and summer is nearly at an end. Please, we have room. Stay this winter here."

It was only through tremendous effort that Roran managed to bend his pride enough to accept.

Roran was quickly growing sick of people's sympathies. He had spent the last week evading Katrina's attempts to see him. If he saw the pitying look the rest of the villagers gave him on her face, he thought he might keel over from shame. She knew where he was staying, therefore Roran had taken to long walks about Carvahall.

One such walk took him to the wreckage of his home. Horst had not been exaggerating; the place was destroyed. If his father was indeed dead, Roran owned the ruins. Wrecked as it was, the field was still good and it would be easier to rebuild than to start from scratch.

Horst had also been right that Roran could not possibly build a shelter to endure the winter before it arrived. Already, autumn was creeping in. The days were shortening and Roran quickly discovered the difficulty in building a house. It was not as simple as he'd imagined it.

He'd tried to pay Horst some of the money he'd earned from Dempton for room and board at his house, but the smith had flatly refused, so when Roran thought Katrina would not find him, he did whatever he could to make himself useful to Horst and repay him for sheltering him during the winter.

"Can you make another run for charcoal?" Horst asked. Roran set down the broom and nodded, fetching a shovel and sack. Working in the smithy was hard work, but satisfying. Roran got to see the fruits of his labor much quicker than on the farm, where all that he had done took the whole summer to become visible.

On his way out to the heap by the oven at the edge of town, he was ambushed by the very person he'd spent all week avoiding. Under a dripping awning halfway to the charcoal pile, Katrina caught his wrist and pushed him against the wall.

She glared at him, hands on her hips and brows furrowed. "Roran. I never knew you to be a coward."

Roran felt her words cut like her father's knives. He did not do himself the indignity of stammering for words. "I did not want to have this conversation."

"Why?" Katrina demanded haughtily. "Because you thought I would not love you anymore now that your father is missing and your house is destroyed? Did you think I liked you for your wealth, Roran?"

"No," Roran denied, even as a quiet part of him thought that might've been part of it. "That wasn't it."

"Then why?" Katrina pressed. "Why–"

Roran glanced around and made certain that nobody was listening. "Shh. We can't be seen together. If your father found out I was courting you–"

"He could do nothing." Katrina jammed her fists into her hips and set her jaw.

"He would forbid you from seeing me," Roran said. "And the villagers would probably help him keep you from seeing me. Just be patient. I'll fix up the farmhouse and get back on my own feet and then–"

Katrina flung herself at him abruptly, wrapping her arms around him. Her brown hair swirled around her head, falling over his own shoulders. She pushed him back to arms length and put a finger to his lips.

"Then," she finished, "you will marry me. And if my father objects, we shall leave this godforsaken valley, as far as we must go, to the moon if we must, to a place where we can be together. No excuses, Roran."

"Well, I told whoever asked. He had a stick – a wand. He could do things with it I'd never even heard of magicians doing. Not that I'm an expert. He made a washbasin appear out of thin air! Filled with warm water and everything. I think he trusted me with his secret because we were both trying to help your father. He had a potion he gave Garrow. I remember it well; it was vivid green and it shone like polished metal. That potion had to be magic, too. Within minutes, Garrow was lifted off death's doorstep and spirited along the road to recovery. It was a miracle."

Gertrude slid him a teacup. Roran let it sit on the table in Gertrude's one room house.

"You think my father looked like he was going to live?" Roran asked.

"Oh yes," Gertrude said sadly. "I was certain of it. He was at greater risk of breaking his neck tripping on the way out than succumbing to his wounds. I was so surprised to hear what happened."

"And you don't think Harry killed my father," Roran checked.

The village healer fixed him with a stare. "Healing is not a simple business. You might see a hundred different outcomes from treating people the same way a hundred times over. I learned from my mentor Tuva a lifetime ago, and she stopped me from making a great many mistakes. Harry is quite young. Things happen. Perhaps he was ashamed, or scared that what he'd done would get him ran out of Carvahall."

Roran took a deep breath to calm his tightened heart. "Where do you think he took my father's body?"

Gertrude delivered her answer apologetically. "The wizard lived in the Spine."

"I saw him once, Roran. You'd know him better than I would." Fisk turned away from his lathe for a moment to add, "All he wanted was varnish. I sold him a bottle. He went right back the way he came. Up north, and into the Spine. We all know the same couple things that came out when the Empire came poking around here. Have you asked Ansel? He bought lumber from the wizard. He might have some answers."

"No, but I will next," Roran promised. "Anything you can tell me."

Fisk frowned. "You've heard the rumors?"

Roran wrinkled his nose. "What Horst has told me."

"Magicians are trouble," Fisk promised him darkly. "They earned their reputation. If people think – well, I'm sorry, Roran. But I think Sloan has it right. The wizard murdered your father. Maybe he learned something he shouldn't have. Maybe he was in cohorts with the strangers that injured him in the first place. The foulest thing is, he's beyond accountability. Those letters probably weren't lying that he left Carvahall. Still, I wonder what drew him here."

"Sold us lumber," Ansel told Roran. "For cheap, too. It was good, fresh wood. We made half the new barn with it. Came from the Spine with a sled full of the stuff. I wonder if there wasn't something sinister about it."

He leaned forward, eyes sharp. "What does a magic user need to sell wood for? He was clearing land, mark my words. With slaves, most likely. Can't see a magician sullying himself with honest work."

Roran had gone in circles. It was hard enough to get answers as it was. The trail was cold, wherever his cousin and the wizard had gone gallivanting off to, they were far gone. Everybody had the same story to give him, if in different words. It was the biggest thing Roran could remember happening in Carvahall. It was not surprising that people were still talking about it.

Frustrated, Roran returned to Horst's house empty-handed. It had gotten chilly before the sun had even set. That night, he stewed on the whole mystery.

Roran puttered in the kitchen, helping Elaine clean up after dinner to keep his mind off of it all. The kitchen counter had all sorts of little metal baubles on it, trinkets that seemed more concerned with beauty than the sturdy, practical metalworking that was Horst's staple.

"He makes them for me," Elaine confided in Roran, smiling. "I love them."

Roran's heart panged with the thought of what he could have with Katrina. His eyes were drawn to a bird, a little raven wrought from black iron. He could have sworn it moved.

Elaine's smile grew tense. Roran did not want to be insensitive and ask, but Gertrude caught his curiosity.

"My husband made it, but the wizard cast a spell upon it," she told him. "Horst tells me it comes alive when nobody but him is looking. The wizard said it would only wake up when nobody who did not know of his magic was around. Even after the rumors spread, my husband is still the only one it moves for."

Elaine gave Roran a wary look. "It is supposed to be able to carry a letter to the wizard. My husband is wary of using it."

Roran eyed the bird suspiciously. "Can you turn around for a moment."

Elaine smiled weakly. "I'll be in the other room. It doesn't like it when I'm in the same room." She headed to the foyer.

Sure enough, as soon as she was out of sight of the threshold to the kitchen, the raven awoke. It cocked its head at Roran, then hopped to the edge of the counter. In defiance of all laws of nature, it spread its metal wings and took flight. Roran ducked and covered his head from the sharp metal bludgeon hurtling through the air, but the raven stayed high to the ceiling and far from his head.

"So this thing can deliver letters," Roran murmured to himself. The bird seemed to hear and understand. It swooped down to the counter and perched, offering a leg. He gave the metal statue a lingering look.

Nobody had answers. Not even Horst or Gertrude. They had guesses. There was only one place Roran was going to find answers. It was a place that belonged more to his cousin than to him. He hadn't a hope of navigating it by himself.

Beady metal eyes met his gaze. Now he had a guide to the top.

He gazed out the window of Horst's guest room toward the foreboding mountains, dark shapes rising in the dusky shadows.

The Spine beckoned.

AN: Since not a lot happens in Roran's POV compared to Eragon's or Harry's (at least until they get to Ellesmera) I'm going to attempt to make these chapters fairly short and quick where possible.